Cobra
by SaladDays
Summary: A brief scene from Elizabeth Peters's first Amelia Peabody mystery, Crocodile on the Sandbank, from Emerson's POV. Dull title, but if you've read the book you at least know the scene I mean.


A brief scene from Emerson's POV, entirely implied by the book and therefore undoubtedly horribly unimaginative and uncreative of me. The dialogue is all directly from the novel, and I lay no claims to it; the characters are all Elizabeth Peters's own as well. This was just me fooling around and over-happy to have time to write again.  
  
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Sweat bled into my eye, scouring like lemon juice; I let the tear form rather than blink too quickly. He was quiet, intent just as I, apparently thus far without notice or care of my presence, but he was alert. That ninny's revolver was in my pocket, but though mentally relieved and respondent, I felt at that moment that the weapon might just as well have been left by my bedside for all the speed with which I could draw it. One movement too sharp and the creature would strike: I had one chance only, for every breath and motion. One chance, always knowing any second might be too late, no matter how charily I proceeded. Irrationally, I feared that the gun would slip out of my damp palm if ever I got that far, but I could not wipe my hand. Still the serpent did not regard me. He had begun again to wind his way closer, slinking among the tangled sheets and pausing repeatedly to observe every minute change in his surroundings. I barely breathed, but it was not I he was watching. His indifference developed in me a nauseous sensation, the helplessness and stupidity of my station evoked by the pure inability to shout or threaten the creature and draw its attention to myself. Such an action would be fatal: he would not chase me, like some silly wild animal in a thriller, but attack in self-defense the nearest victim.  
  
I cursed myself for the nearness. Since Peabody had stalked off to bed, taking none too kindly my genial remark anent her lack of sarcasm, a contempt which she deigned to express to me in a cold glower as she swept away from the table, and Miss Evelyn, followed by Walter and that imbecile, had gone down the ledge for a brief walk, I had pondered more deeply over the mystery, as Peabody insisted on calling it. I expected she had not appreciated my reply to her earlier observation, that she alone from Miss Evelyn had as yet received no injury in the strange occurrences, for at the time I had noted the furious set to her brow which, extraordinarily, ceased her discourse. Assumably she took my words to insinuate a suspicion or a jealousy--I really cannot fathom what she thought I intended. I don't particularly care to. My mind was entirely elsewhere: if her suspicions were correct, and Miss Evelyn the chief goal, then Peabody's safety was at risk. Accordingly, after I was left alone on the ledge, I rose several times and poked aside the curtain of the ladies' tomb, sweeping the interior with my gaze in a half-second and returning to sit or pace along the ledge. I do not know what I expected to see; fool I was, I believed that any danger would have to come from the outside, and thus pass along the ledge and in my line of sight. Peabody was not sleeping well--her mind perturbed, doubtless, by her failure to conceive a better plan than the one I had proposed--and inevitably I found that the sounds which had drawn me to the mouth of the tomb were only her restless shifting. So blinded, and uncomfortable lest Walter and the others return and find me in what would no doubt be perceived as a rather--awkward--position, I did not see the snake until it had already achieved the foot of the cot. At that place, only a hand over one's eyes would have prevented seeing the creature, highlighted as he was against the white linen, his slender body a creeping blot over the paleness, and at that place he had the advantage: he could strike faster than I could reach him.  
  
Peabody was still asleep. From where I stood, because of the jumble of bedclothes, I could not comfort myself even vainly with the assurance that the reptile was not situated over her limbs; I thought it was not, but the point was in truth irrelevant. He was near enough, and the couch yielding enough, that any movement on her part would be death. Perspiration dribbled down my brow, bridging my nose to infest both eyes in one stroke, and millimeter by millimeter I pushed closer to the revolver. Several times I called her name, low, terrified lest my dry mouth produce a cough and thunder in the confines of the tomb. Whether the risk was greater in allowing her to sleep or attempting to awaken her without causing a start, I could not rationally judge; insufferable paralysis motivated the summons. I could not watch the scene and do nothing: my brain told me I was every second closer to reaching the weapon, killing the beast, but every vein pulsed with frenzied denial.  
  
With a grinding effort, I fixated my gaze on the serpent, all thoughts, all attention devoted solely to observing his every delicate movement. If the power of my mind and the searing flashes issuing thence could have been realized, he would have shriveled and burnt in an instant. My hand was now perhaps eight inches from the pocket. One bullet. Only one bullet remained. I would not have time for a second fire: one bullet or more made no difference; yet I clenched my jaw, tasting sour sweat. There should have been two. Then Walter would not have been hurt; then I might feel more sure now. Then also I would not probably have taken custody of his lordship's gun, and there was the snake with nothing to stop it but a bullet through its head. Seven inches.  
  
She did not move, but I knew she was awake. The scraping rattle of my voice surprised me when it came, immediate and without unnecessary direction. "Don't move! For your life, remain motionless." My breath, as ragged as the voice it birthed, felt extraordinarily hot on the desiccated interior of my mouth. Pausing his advance, the serpent peered ahead with watchful eyes: he too, I was convinced, had perceived the change in his victim. From his coil, he raised his head, and I dared one glance at Amelia's face. She stared transfixed at the creature, motionless but for the tiniest vibration of her jaw. The light was not much, piercing in where I had raised the curtain, but the rays glanced off a sheen on her forehead; the heat flush, however, had given place to a pallor. I returned my eyes to the snake. "Be still. Not a breath, not a movement..."  
  
His whole body pulsated as he stood, waving side to side as to the inaudible tune of a charmer's flute. His head. If the bullet did not enter the head but lodged somewhere amid the whorl of the lower body, the snake could have a chance, however brief, to retaliate in the last seconds before death. Once the envenomed fangs had pierced flesh, it would no longer matter whether I had killed the creature or not. Still his body wove back and forth, eyes ever fixed on those of his enemy, and she did not breathe. My own hand I felt was trembling, drenched in perspiration, tense and aching from the slow, invisible movement. I was near the pocket, so near--and still he danced, waiting. The sun scorched my neck, my eyes stung from prolonged staring, my breath boomed in my ears. Fabric scraped my fingers; I nearly weakened from relief, though the crucial task was not yet accomplished. Rhythmically the head swayed, steadily, predictably. Just long enough.  
  
In a deafening crash, it was over.  
  
I saw the writhing skin crumple; I did not see the shot hit its mark. At the same time the tomb rocked as with an earthquake, Peabody shuddered; the serpent fell. My mind upheaved: I felt the sturdy rock floor quiver, and I stumbled, fighting the billows. Unwillingly, I clutched at her, pulling her moist, clammy forehead to my chest, fumbling shaking fingers for her pulse. The snake had not risen, but neither had Amelia stirred since that final paroxysm. I was terrified; I could not feel her heartbeat for the lively throbbing of my own. Cotton still swabbed my ears from the ceaseless echo of the gunshot, and no sound could distinguish life from death. I laid her head on my lap, picking the hair away from her neck, cupping my hand to try again. This time I held my breath, I resuscitated that form with an urgent, stubborn stare: she breathed. I dropped my head, exhausted. Mechanically, I brushed away the beads of terror that wet her skin--then the dam gave way, and in the first release of the pressure I kissed her face repeatedly sheerly because it was a living face. The attack had failed.  
  
Walter and the others were coming; their steps came fast and anxious up the ledge. Reverberating through the valley, the noise of the gunshot must have reached them had they been as far as the village. I recollected myself; I stood and set Peabody back on the couch, then gripped her shoulders and gave her a sound shaking. Her muscles twitched--I laid a smart stroke to her cheek--she opened her eyes and seethed. Miss Evelyn, running to her benefactress's rescue, shoved her way between us with a force and determination I would not have expected of her. "Amelia! Oh, my dear, dear Amelia--we heard the shot and came running--what has happened? Are you wounded? are you dying?"  
  
Shoving my hands in my pockets and stepping slightly away, I reassured her, then went so far as to welcome Peabody back to the land of the conscious. "Not wounded, not dying, merely enjoying a ladylike swoon. Allow me to congratulate you, Peabody; it is the first time I have seen you behave as a lady is supposed to do. I must make a note of it in my journal."  
  
She glowered at me: I saw there was no doubt of her recovering quickly. 


End file.
